


Another Fucking Drinking Myth

by yearofcomets



Category: MythBusters RPF
Genre: First Time, Light BDSM, M/M, Polyamory Negotiations, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yearofcomets/pseuds/yearofcomets
Summary: He has no idea why Jamie stayed. They’re friendly, but they’re not friends. They’re not suited to being friends. Adam had tried to be friends at first but, and he will say it again, they were not made to be the bestest best friends. They’re made to work together. And work together well. Really well. But a drink out? At a bar? As friends? Bros? Whatever the fuck?Nah.A drink for work is as good as they’re gonna get.
Relationships: Jamie Hyneman/Adam Savage
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26





	1. Catalyst

Adam stays behind after filming, waving off rides, waving off everyone, happy to just breathe in the silence. He’s a manic guy, sure. But the sensory inputs of shooting and the myth testing and the this and the that have all been funneled into the meat-grinder of booze before being spit out into a cacophony of Too Much. He needs a little time before he gets his shit together and calls a cab. Because right now? A car ride sounds absolutely god awful. The producer’s not happy about it though. A liability or whatever the fuck. But Adam’s handed his keys over to . . . somebody? . . . and for some weird reason, Jaime’s staying too. He’s just as drunk as Adam but obviously the producer trusts a drunk Jamie to watch over a drunk Adam. Why wouldn’t he? The man is, as Adam always says, a robot.

So Adam’s drinking water and leaning back against the couch with his eyes closed, trying to wind down. And god help him, he’s not really winding down.

He has no idea why Jamie stayed. They’re friendly, but they’re not _friends._ They’re not suited to being friends. Adam had tried to be friends at first but, and he will say it again, they were not made to be the bestest best friends. They’re made to work together. And work together well. Really well. But a drink out? At a bar? As friends? Bros? Whatever the fuck?

Nah.

A drink for work is as good as they’re gonna get.

And he’s fine with that. He trusts Jamie with his life but he doesn’t trust Jamie for a good time. 

The only problem is, Adam is, and always has been, too horned up for his own good. Entirely too hot and bothered by literally anything. And god, if he isn’t hot for Jamie. His coworker. Not even a _friend._ Just a dude he has a close working relationship with and god in heaven, Adam is dying to be railed by him. Has been dying for it for entirely too long.

He’s way too drunk for this and he and Jamie are entirely too alone together for this. He should not, not, not, definitely fucking not even get near to _thinking_ about this. He’s probably too drunk to get it up anyways so there’s no point there’s no --

“Hey Jamie,” he says, interrupting his own train of thought.

“What?” Jamie kind of startles.

Adam leans over, slings his arm over Jamie and Jamie is probably barely tolerating it only because he's also drunk. Jamie is solid and warm underneath his arm and that sparks a familiar warm and needy rush in Adam that sends him into complete and utter dumbass mode.

"I know we’re not like, close or whatever . . ."

Jamie snorts at that.

“Shut up, I mean like, even though we’re not, like friends, you ever think about, like what if we --” Adam scrunches up his face, trying to make the words come out. He ends up giggling at the thought instead. “God I’m drunk.”

“Yeah, you are,” Jamie says like it’s the most obvious and stupid thing Adam’s ever said, which, fair.

"Okay, okay, like, what if we," Adam rubs his thumb along Jamie’s shoulder, soft and firm, "you know . . ." Adam giggles again. The feeling of Jamie next to him like this is going straight to his everything. He can’t even think it much less say it. It doesn’t help that there’s a sudden warm press of Jamie’s thigh to his as he shifts closer. Huh.

"Yeah," Jamie mumbles, looking at Adam sidelong, face going pink. Well, pinker than his base-line drunken flush.

Huh.

"You’re still pretty drunk too," Adam says, obvious and stupid, swaying further into Jamie’s space. He can smell their awful boozy breath mingling, hot and humid. It's gross and encouraging, especially the way Jamie's breath is speeding up.

Double, triple huh.

“What am I supposed to have thought about?” Jamie asks, voice weird, really weird, and Adam whines a little in his throat at the weird. He doesn’t want to have to say the damn thing when he’s pretty sure Jamie knows what the damn thing is. Adam glares at him, huffing, but the full-on pout is interrupted by a hand on his thigh. It settles there as if it’s keeping someone from falling over because they’re drunk, that’s the excuse at least, but all it’s doing is sending Adam into overdrive. He thinks--he hopes--that’s the point.

“Jamie,” he says, trying to spit it out through the haze of drunk and horny and stupid. “Jamie, you ever think about if we fucked?” It’s crude. Probably the worst way he could have said it. He starts thinking of the ten different ways he could off himself right there until Jamie makes a noise that Adam can’t parse but the way his fingers dig into Adam’s thigh is encouragement enough. More than enough. “ _I’ve_ obviously thought about it. Like, obviously,” Adam continues, feeling the start of a rambling tangent trying to break through. He tries to tamp it down, bites his lip, but Jamie’s sliding his hand higher up Adam’s thigh, mere centimeters, precious, glorious, ridiculous centimeters that have Adam making the world’s weirdest moaning gasp and launching into the world’s weirdest monologue.

“Fuck, Jamie you gotta like, understand,” he pushes himself closer, as close to climbing into Jamie’s lap as someone can get without actually climbing into his lap, “I’ve had a thing for you for ages. _Ages_ , man. Come on, you gotta like, _do_ something, _say_ something, anything. I - I, Christ, Jamie, I’ve thought about you fucking me in M5 fifty different ways from Sunday. I admit it okay! I admit it. Your dumbfuck co-host wants to ride you ‘til he dies from dehydration. Is that what you want to hear?” He throws up his hands as his momentum slams into a wall, his confidence in reading Jamie’s signals fleeing. “Oh my god what the fuck is _wrong_ with me?” He goes to stand up but Jamie grabs his wrist and tugs him back, face dead serious except for the ugly splotchy _cute_ flush across his cheeks.

“What?” Adam squeaks.

“Where are you going?” Jamie asks, barely any voice behind the words, like if he puts anything into it, he’ll break something. Adam settles back down, staring at Jamie’s hand circling his wrist.

“I don’t know, I thought maybe . . .” Adam looks away from his wrist and at the floor, runs his hand through his hair. The hand not currently trapped by Jamie’s. Shit. “I don’t know. Jamie, seriously, you gotta say something.”

“Like what?” Jamie asks, thumb rubbing over Adam’s pulse point. It’s weirdly intimate, even for this conversation. It’s probably because Jamie’s drunk. They’re drunk. They’re drunk and Adam’s just confessed some dumb ass shit to his _coworker_. He’s a fucking idiot.

“I’m thinking you could say something like ‘let’s never speak of this again’ or ‘I never thought about it and I never will’ or --”

“I have thought about it,” Jamie says.

Adam whimpers.

“Every time you piss me off, I think about it.”

“Bullshit,” Adam hisses, feeling laughter bubbling up through him as everything blurrily slips into place.

“You never shut up,” Jamie continues as Adam tries to climb onto his lap with ungainly beer limbs. “You do stupid things and it makes me want to . . .” Jamie trails off, looking unsure, looking decidedly embarrassed. Adam settles happily into his lap, laughing.

“Makes you want to put me in my place hmmm?” Adam supplies, grinning.

“I hate you,” Jamie says, getting a hand up under Adam’s shirt, fingernails digging into his skin.

“Ahhh, I know you do,” Adam says, arching his back. “Ahh, fuck, I know.” Jamie grabs his hair, tugging him down into a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss that tastes like mustache and stale beer and victory.

Adam’s moaning wet and clumsy against Jamie’s mouth from it, rolling his hips despite his dick’s complete inability to get with the program. It feels so damn good to finally, finally be doing this that he doesn’t care if he can’t do anything but badly make out with Jamie, their glasses hitting ever so often but not enough to make them stop. He can feel scratches down his back that will be there for at least a day and Jamie is making some sort of _growling_ sound that is making Adam go completely nuts.

Jamie gets a hold of his hair again and tugs hard making Adam arch up and back, his entire body singing with it. “Fuck, _Jamie_ ,” he gasps, digging his nails hard into Jamie’s shoulders, trying to breath through the _hot hot HOT HOT._ Jamie makes a noise like a laugh before leaning in and kissing Adam’s neck, right at the juncture where his shoulder starts and it absolutely sends Adam into the stratosphere even before he starts to bite. He’s gasping and whining and making a racket but he can’t stop, he doesn’t want to. Neither it seems, does Jamie. Jamie’s tugging his shirt collar to the side and is _marking_ his collarbone now and _damn god-fucking-damn._

“Jamie please, you gotta - you gotta fuck me. Want you to fuck me.”

“Can’t,” Jamie says, voice rough against Adam’s neck.

“Why not?” Adam whines. He's well aware that Jamie is still marking up his neck despite the declaration of _can't_.

“We’re drunk,” Jamie says like that explains anything.

“I know we’re drunk, idiot,” Adam says, and that gets him a particularly vicious bite and Adam laughs, elated.

"Neither of us can get it up, Adam,” Jamie says matter-of-fact. Always matter-of-fucking-fact.

“But--”

Jamie leans back and wipes his mouth, that wry smile on his face that he gets sometimes. It never fails to get Adam some type of way. Which is the type of way he is right now. Jamie looks at Adam for the first time since they started this and Adam realizes that is not a good idea. He sees the exact journey he expects Jamie’s face to make as he goes from ‘drunk and into it’ to ‘sobering up and horrified’ and he wants to scream.

“We should get going,” Jamie says, flat, flat, flat.

“Jamie, please --”

“We’re too drunk to think clearly about this.”

“ _Jamie,”_ Adam pleads, grabbing Jamie by the jaw and tugging him into a messy desperate kiss. He feels a flare of triumph as Jamie makes a noise, opening his mouth, tongue sliding against Adam’s but it’s short lived. All too soon Jamie’s pulling away, dumping Adam off his lap and onto the couch.

“We can’t,” he says, standing up, retrieving his beret that fell off while they were making out.

Making out. Jesus. Adam rubs his face, sighing. “God you really are the worst.”

“I’ll call you a cab,” Jamie says like it’s anything close to an apology.

“I can call my own damn cab, Jamie.”

\-----

Adam’s staring at his steering wheel, white knuckling it in the parking lot of M5.

He’d woken up with a start from the alarm, half dressed in the previous day’s clothes. He hadn’t had a shirt on but he apparently hadn’t managed to get his pants off before falling on top of the comforter and passing out.

He’d told his wife,  _ his wife _ , about this wild dream he had last night. Another Jamie one.  _ Another. _ She knew all about those, didn’t she? Except this time Dream Jamie had dumped him before anything fun had happened which was weird and hey, why was she laughing?

He can still feel her fingers running over the bruises Jamie had left all over his neck and collarbone. It was awful. And hot.  


He had told her nothing was going to happen because of it. Jamie would never ever ever let on that it had happened, much less come asking for seconds. She had simply nodded and smiled like she knew something he didn’t. The smile that meant she thought he was being cute and stupid.

He loves that smile.

And, he guesses, he loves when Jamie looks at him like that too. He's of course known that Jamie thinks he’s being stupid more often than not. But the cute part of that look, well now he guesses Jamie thinks that as well. Which is fucking whack.  


He looks out the window to see Jamie going inside M5 and just the sight of him makes his stomach flip like he’s some sort of middle schooler with a crush. And makes his dick twitch like he’s some sort of freak who wants to fuck his coworker. He hits the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and curses under his breath when it hurts a bit more than expected.  


“Let me know what happens,” she had said.

“Is that permission?” he had asked, mostly entirely joking. Mostly.  


“Do you want it to be?” She had laughed and pressed her thumb into one of the worst bruises, making him whimper.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he’d insisted.

“Maybe I want something to happen.”

Terrible answer. No good for his sanity. Dangerous even. He replays the morning in his head over and over again, replays last night over and over again until he has to dig his nails into his thighs to stop from getting hard, well harder, right before he goes into work. Work with Jamie. Work with the man who had destroyed his neck and chest so much he has to wear his black polo buttoned up all the way like an idiot. Work that involves cameras. Work that centers on recording his humiliation for posterity.

He’s going to absolutely murder Jamie today.

\----

All he can do is thank a god he doesn’t believe in that today is a slow build day.

It wouldn’t be as bad as it is if he could stop touching the bruises Jamie left, pressing his fingers into them through his shirt while he thinks. Whenever he hits a roadblock he presses his thumb at the large hickey in the dip under his clavicle like it will help. Like it's a yellow stress ball with a smiley face on it instead of the result of your drunk coworker losing his mind. And it  _ does _ help. He digs his thumb into the bruise over and over, breath coming out shorter, arousal thudding through his veins, but his head clears, he fits the pieces together, he does good work.

He can feel Jamie watching him when he does it. Maybe the watching helps him think too. Anchors him rather then makes his skin crawl like he thinks it should. Their eyes meet a couple times when Adam does it, not often, only on accident. Jamie keeps his face a mask, which is to say, his usual expression, but there's a flush there that wasn't there before and when Adam grins despite himself, when he levels a challenging look at Jamie and digs his thumb hard into the bruise until he hisses from the feeling, Jamie looks away just quick enough that it feels like a victory.

By the time everyone breaks for lunch Adam is half-hard and buzzing with excess energy and frustration. He’s currently funneling it into his project as best he can, trying not to act out for once, trying not to attract undue attention. Now there’s sudden quiet with everyone gone, there’s no audience, no distractions, just the work. He can’t stop now that he has the stillness. It happens more often than not, missing lunch to work, so no one will care, no one will notice. And even though Jamie will sometimes come over and force him to stop and eat, he’s sure that won’t happen today.

He startles when he feels Jamie’s hand on his shoulder, light and professional like it usually is when he rouses Adam from his flow. He always acquiesces with a little grumbling, but today it raises the hairs on the back of his neck, a fight or flight response that he's struggling to quell. He looks up at Jamie to see an expression he’s never seen before nor can he define it. That definitely doesn’t ratchet up the adrenaline flooding his system. He follows blindly as Jamie steers him into a storage closet and as soon as the door closes he realizes that, fuck, he's gonna get yelled at. He’s gonna get chewed the fuck out for last night. He prepares to speak, to ramble enough over Jamie’s stern talking-to that he won’t have to deal with it but all he gets is silence.

And Jamie’s fingers brushing his throat.

A strangled noise slips free from Adam at the contact, but nothing more.

Jamie starts unbuttoning Adam's polo. He’s quick, efficient. Adam would expect nothing else. He’s cornered in by Jamie, his breath coming up short, pulse hammering hard enough that he’s sure Jamie can feel it. One, two, three buttons undone. Jamie spreads the collar open with one hand, his fingers dragging against Adam’s skin, catching on the dip of his throat, and he can’t help but whimper a little. Jamie pauses to consider what he can see, before taking his other hand and tugging open Adam’s collar further, fingers dipping underneath the fabric to trace the line of bruises he’s left.

Adam’s already half hard from it but he’s afraid if he says something, does something, Jamie will stop, will realize what he’s doing and leave. Again. He stays still, despite himself, fingernails digging into his palms as Jamie just touches and looks and slowly, expertly drives Adam insane.

Jamie tugs his shirt to the side, stretching the fabric until he can see the mark Adam’s been bothering all day. The edge of the collar digs into Adam’s neck, it hurts a little but it doesn’t matter because Jamie’s reaching up to dig his thumb Right. There.

Jamie looks up at Adam’s face, searching for something. All Adam knows is that he probably looks wild-eyed, face red, vaguely sweaty. Nothing great, but he thinks he looks better than a hairy walrus looking dumbass wearing a beret and tiny little glasses. Why the hell he wants someone who wears a beret to fuck him, he doesn’t know. And he sure as hell doesn’t know what Jamie wants from him or from this. Jamie presses his thumb there again, rubbing at the bruise,  _ hard _ , without looking away from Adam’s expression. Adam has to shut his eyes, bite his lip to keep from making a noise, from doing something, from breaking whatever the hell sort of rules Jamie’s dreamt up. His head hits the wall behind him as Jamie keeps up the pressure and shifts his entire body closer yet far enough away that he’s not touching Adam, keeping him hemmed in, caught, yet too far away for any sort of anything. An invisible boundary that only Jamie can see.

Adam can’t help but scream, closed mouth, deep in his throat, thoroughly frustrated. Jamie just snickers and draaaaaags his thumbnail across a row of marks. Adam lets out a strangled moan, body jerking. He almost speaks but thinks better of it, settles for rattling breaths and whimpers. It feels like Jamie knows exactly how much restraint Adam’s exercising right now because the kiss over The Bruise TM feels like an acknowledgement, the bite following it, a reward.

The soft pressure of Jamie’s hand on his dick through his jeans. Well that’s completely unexpected.

Adam’s head jerks forward, eyes snapping open and Jamie’s watching him with that  _ look.  _ He’s not smiling, not with his mouth at least, but with his eyes, the slight crinkle, then it does reach his mouth just a touch and it’s all smug and dangerous and Adam wants to kill him. He’s being played. And he wants to be played.

Jamie squeezes his dick and Adam makes a gasping moaning sort of sound at the contact, trying so hard not to speak, not to curse, to say Jamie’s name, to encourage, to babble. He’s forcing words into obnoxious noises to try and follow Jamie’s rules. And that’s hot in it’s own way and he feels woozy from it. His hips press way too eager into Jamie’s touch, going up on his toes to get more. Jamie huffs a laugh and it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard that it makes him laugh too, giddy with it. Jamie answers by getting a better grip on Adam’s cock, curving his palm against him through his jeans, rubbing firm and precise and yeah, it’s weird, they’re apparently not allowed to speak, Adam’s not allowed to touch, but it’s good, it’s so much more than he thought he’d get and it’s fucking fantastic.

Jamie undoes his fly, gets his hand inside, still a layer of underwear between actually touching his dick but that’s fine, Adam’s not complaining. He can’t do anything but marvel at Jamie’s thumb rubbing the head of his cock through the rough fabric, the obscene jump of his hand through Adam’s jeans. He groans, head falling forward to rest his forehead against Jamie’s, the both of them watching Jamie jerk him off. It’s feels a bit like they’re behind a blast shield, watching something happening from yards away. It’s an experiment, isn’t it? To see how bad it would actually be for them to do this. Just an impersonal handy in the storage closet. Not even touching skin. Just friends-not even friends-just whatever doing whatever. Whatever. All Adam wants to do is make out, to come with Jamie’s tongue in his mouth, but no, they must maintain a safe distance between them and the experiment, must have safety first, must be sober and safe must be -- Jamie’s hand slips and his thumb slides into the gap of the fly of Adam’s boxers and Adam finally gets skin on skin contact that it shocks him into moaning Jamie’s name.

“Fuck, shit, fuck, I’m sorry--” he starts to say but Jamie’s kissing him, their glasses making painful contact, Jamie’s teeth digging into his bottom lip hard. Jamie does that weird growling thing and tears his glasses off, shoves Adam against the wall and gets his hand full against Adam’s cock, mouth against his. After that it doesn’t take long.

A few, real, twists of actual palm against dick, tongue and teeth and Adam chanting Jamie’s name when he takes a breath before he’s coming all over Jamie’s hand and all over his boxers. The aftershocks last long, much longer than his orgasm, just as good, almost better. He’s moaning desperately into Jamie’s mouth through them, sucking on his tongue, hips twitching erratically.

He whines when Jamie breaks away to reach for a paper towel roll on the shelf. He cleans his hand off, puts his glasses back on, grabs his beret from the floor and dusts it off. They’re done. Just like that. It’s over. No more. Adam’s breathing hard, sagging against the wall, trying to clean himself up as best he can, avoiding any chance of meeting Jamie’s eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathes, buttoning his polo back up, shaking a little. “Holy fuck.” He risks a look at Jamie, face burning when he sees him watching Adam, specifically watching the skin disappear. The man’s obsessed. “You - you want --”

“No,” Jamie says and Adam nods, trying to catch his breath. Sure. Of course not.

“Alright . . .”

“You should eat,” Jamie says like that makes sense to say after a weird hand job you just gave your co-host.

“Yeah Jamie, I’ll fucking eat. Jesus.”

Jamie stares at him for a moment and then leaves. Adam makes a face as the door closes. Then frantically fishes out his phone.

_ → Hey babe, guess what the fuck just happened _


	2. Experiment

Jamie has given him a storage closet hand-job every single day they’ve seen each other going on like a week. But he has never once let Adam return the favor. Which fine. Sure. Adam would like to get him off now and again but if Jamie’s into it, then he can’t really complain. Jamie is obviously having fun. Fun giving Adam a handy. If he wasn’t having fun he sure as hell wouldn’t be doing it.

Jamie likes getting Adam off.

It’s not a string of words that should make sense. And now that Adam thinks about it, it’s starting to feel like Jamie doesn’t know what to do with the concept. He huffs cute little laughs when Adam does something stupid when they fuck but he doesn’t want them to talk. He smiles at Adam like he’s going to eat him alive but he hesitates to give Adam skin-on-skin contact. He makes soft moaning noises when they kiss but won’t let Adam touch him. The framing of whatever it is they’re doing, it’s always straight-to-the-point and sudden and just as quickly ignored. The actual experience, the brief amount of time that Jamie’s tongue is down Adam’s throat, his hand on his dick? It’s hot and stupid and fun. Adam doesn’t know what to make of the juxtaposition.

If it was any other dude he was messing around with, Adam would think Jamie was rationalizing some sort of affair. As long as Jamie doesn’t get off, as long as they don’t speak, as long as they don’t kiss too much and as long as they ignore it outside of the storage room, it’s like it doesn’t count as a real affair. But Adam knows Jamie wouldn’t cheat, so it can’t be that. But now that he’s thought about it, well, it’s not like they’ve talked about it. They’re both married. Happily. Wildly happily. He doesn’t know what Jamie’s motivation is but Adam’s libido and imagination get the better of him sometimes and even though Jamie is an acquired taste . . . Adam’s definitely acquired it. And lunchtime hand-jobs definitely take the edge off of his taste for stupid idiots and his general neediness. And that makes everyone happier. So maybe Jamie’s just doing everyone a favor. But they still haven’t . . . god what if Jamie isn’t supposed to be doing this? What if he’s rationalizing it away? They should have talked about it. Definitely. But they’re not friends. They’ve never talked about something other than work. Talking about it never occurred to him.

His slowly building panic attack gets interrupted by a hand on his shoulder –Jamie’s hand on his shoulder– and Adam realizes he’s been staring at a piece of two-by-four with his mouth hanging open for the last . . .

“How long have I been sitting here?” he asks Jamie, running hand down his face, suddenly exhausted.

“Not sure, but the last of the crew left about ten minutes ago.”

Christ,” Adam mutters, standing up and stretching. He catches Jamie glancing at the way his shirt comes up and a flood of guilt crashes over him. “Fuck. Stop that,” he slaps Jamie’s arm for emphasis.

“What?”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Jamie asks and Adam isn’t sure if he genuinely doesn’t know or if he’s just playing dumb. 

“I don’t know, like . . .” He waves his hands around, searching for words that won’t make him die saying them.

“Uh huh.”

“Jamie,” Adam runs his hand through his hair, getting up the gumption. He can’t look at Jamie, so he looks at the ceiling instead. “You’ve like, told her right?”

“Told who what?”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Adam starts pacing, “your wife. You’ve told your wife that you --” He pats himself down, confirming that he is indeed not mic’d anymore. He looks at Jamie finally, face red. “You’ve told your wife that you’ve been getting me off every single day for a damn week,” he spits out in a rush. He pauses for Jamie to say something but Jamie just stares at him. “Right?” he asks, more forcefully.

Another pause for an answer and Jamie starts laughing. Genuinely. Like Adam’s missed something obvious.

“Answer the fucking question, dude,” Adam says, trying to sound serious but the weirdness of the situation makes him falter.

“You want to know if I’m cheating on my wife? With you?” Jamie says slowly like it’s the funniest and stupidest damn thing he’s ever heard.

“Well, are you? I think that’s a reasonable question,” Adam says. “You sure as hell got your hand on my dick every single day.”

“Christ,” Jamie sounds like he’s trying to get a hold of himself, but he’s not doing a great job. “Of course I told her. Have you told  _ your  _ wife?”

Adam grimaces at Jamie. “Yes.” He sucks in a breath, trying not to yell. “I’ve told her. But how were either of us supposed to know who we’ve told what? It’s not like we’ve discussed this. At all. In hindsight, we probably should have but, ha ha, too late.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, sobering up a little, rubbing the back of his neck.

“And like, you know, you’re doing very well at pretending it isn’t happening,” Adam realizes he’s pacing but he can’t stop, “And you won’t let me get you off, which is kind of weird after like five or so rounds. So like, I didn’t know if you were having some kind of,” he waves his arms around for emphasis, “weird Hoosier-style repressed homosexuality episode over there or what.”

Jamie snorts, “Weird way to put it but,” Jamie screws up his mouth like he doesn’t want to say whatever's next, “yeah.”

Adam freezes.

What.

“What?”

“I told my wife as soon as I got home that night,” Jamie says slowly, carefully. “She thought I should,” Jamie pauses, face going unbelievably red, “I don’t know what she said exactly, but the gist of it was I should experiment.”

Adam can’t help but laugh out loud, leaning against a table, feeling lightheaded. “God that makes it sound like you’re some hot young co-ed or something.”

“Well,” Jamie looks everywhere but at Adam, “I think she meant more like – ” Jamie cuts himself off, his face going carefully blank.

It suddenly dawns on Adam what she meant.

Experiment.

_ Experiment. _

“Oh no,” Adam starts laughing. Hard. It hurts. “Oh  _ no.” _

“Yeah,” Jamie says, flat. But this time the flat is intentional, for effect. Adam gasps for air he’s laughing too much, heart thudding when Jamie joins him. They calm down after a moment and Adam finally thinks about the actual, real implications of what Jamie has said.

“So you’re not? I mean, you’ve never . . . ” Adam gestures vaguely between them, trying not to laugh because this part isn't funny, it’s the other parts. But not this part. This part is important.

“I haven’t,” Jamie says like it’s the easiest thing in the world to admit that he’s suddenly decided to act on his attraction to men after all these years. With Adam. Jesus  _ Christ. _ He feels flattered but also terrified but mostly . . .

“So that’s why you’ve been . . . ” Adam trails off, giving Jamie a once over to really drive it into his skull that yes, this Jamie, right here. This one. Wants to. With him. Oh.  _ Fuck _ .

It’s hot. And he hates that he thinks it’s hot. He should be more sensitive, caring, his friend-no-coworker-dude-fuck-buddy-guy is having a bisexual awakening or some shit. He shouldn’t be into it like he is.

“Is that a problem?” Jamie asks, like a dare, a challenge.

A challenge. Oh dear god. Yes, fucking,  _ please. _

“A ha, not a problem,” Adam gives Jamie a more overt once over. “A guy just wants to return the favor sometimes.”

Jamie shifts awkwardly, frowns, crosses his arms. The clearest sign for  _ hey bud, tread lightly,  _ but Adam can only take it as an addendum to Jamie’s previous challenge. Jamie needs this incomprehensible 3-D chess game of flirting for whatever weird closeted farm boy reasons he has. Adam’s . . . wildly into it.

He flounders for a decent opening gambit in light of this revelation, “Is it because you don’t think I’ll be any good?”

That gets Jamie’s flush to deepen as well as his frown. Could be good, could be bad. It’s a reaction at least.

“Because that hurts man, really it does,” Adam says, pointing at his heart and pouting, “Deep down.”

He can see Jamie’s lips twitch, fighting between a grin and a frown.

Adam hams it up a bit more, a little snuffling this time, a bit of wiping his eyes. “My co-host doesn’t think I can fuck good enough for his high standards.”

That gets Jamie to laugh, to speak. “Maybe I just like getting you . . . uh,” Jamie’s spontaneous comment collapses quickly into wide eyes and a nuclear blush, “You know what, never mind.”

Adam knows his face has split open into the most shit-eating grin of all time but he can’t help it. “No, no, no, you can’t stop know. Please  _ God _ , finish that sentence,” Adam says, taking a few steps forward, the Shakespearean monologue he was gearing up for sliding away with the potentiality of Jamie saying something like that, to him,  _ about him, _ with the intent of doing more of that with him. Soon. Now. “Jesus, I don’t know what you need right now, but dear  _ God,  _ I’ll do anything.”

“Like what?” Jamie asks, a bit sharp, a bit  _ something _ and Adam whines in the back of his throat.

“If you . . . Jamie I want to do a lot of things, but like I can totally stick with jerking you off okay, that seems like a nice place to start. But if you don’t want to do that . . . just . . . what do you want? Please?”

“I want you to shut up,” Jamie says, that sharpness brighter now, hitting Adam square in the chest like the aftershock of an explosion. It triggers the same sort of adrenaline, his blood vessels feel like they’re vibrating with it.

“Okay,” is all he can say. It comes out a little whimper-y and he flushes from it.

“That’s it?” Jamie asks, and takes a deliberate step forward. Adam swallows thickly with the intention, heart in his throat. Jamie cocks his head, a bit of a smirk flickering across his face as he realizes Adam’s not going to say anything else. What could he say? Even if he could form words, why would he say them? The way Jamie is looking at him is the most incentive he’s ever had to keep his mouth shut. Jamie takes another step forward. He has this look on his face that he gets when he’s figuring out a particularly thorny problem -- no, that’s not quite right -- when he’s coming up with a particularly ingenious solution.

Fuck.

It takes what feels like ages for Jamie to close the distance between them, just a few short steps and he’s there but Adam feels out of breath from the waiting. Desperate. He almost keens when he feels Jamie’s hand at his hip, like it’s the first time they’ve touched, not the fifth or sixth time Jamie’s hand has been around his cock, fingers left covered in his come. But that’s nothing compared to this simple touch, Jamie rucking up his shirt, calloused fingers on his skin. They’re both breathing audibly, little hitches of breath that goes to Adam’s head as Jamie digs blunt nails into the softness of his hips. They stand there for an eternity like that. There’s a precipice Jamie is standing on and Adam can’t be the one to push him off for once. He has to go on his own. He has to make that jump.

It starts with a kiss. It’s soft, chaste, at a calculated angle so their glasses don’t hit uncomfortably, and then Jamie makes the softest of noises at this kiss, this delicate thing between them, and there’s nothing Adam can do to stop from pressing into him, tongue sliding against tongue, turning the kiss into something unbearably filthy. Jamie’s making more of those sounds, both hands digging into Adam’s hips, nails biting into skin. Adam can’t help but cry out, a whimpering thing, at this display of trust.

He had expected, painfully wanted, Jamie to continue down the path of quiet domination he had so nicely set up, but this, this thing isn’t that, can’t be yet. Will be, for sure. Adam can’t wait for that. But now, it’s almost just as hot, maybe hotter, for how fragile and earnest and needy this frightening step is. 

For Adam to touch him.

Adam breaks the kiss, forehead against forehead and, god help him, asks, “Can I?”

Jamie nods, a little halting thing. And it makes Adam feel bright and terrified, like a star on the verge of supernova. This small gesture, to run his hand down Jamie’s chest, over his white button-up, feeling his fluttering heart through a warm solid chest, then down, over the softness of his stomach. He reaches the top of his jeans, breathless, and Jamie grabs his wrist.

“What is it?” Adam squeaks out, heart in his throat.

“Don’t -” Jamie’s voice is firm around the word but Adam can tell he’s cut himself off, that it’s not a end, just an addendum. Adam stills, trying not to move or breathe as Jamie tries to voice the rest of the request. He hears Jamie swallow, trying to muster up the courage. “Only. Over.” Is all he can manage.

Adam can guess what he means. Fuck. Not guess. Adam knows. Knows Jamie even in this weird little world they’ve found themselves in.

Over fabric. No skin contact. Not yet.

“Jeans or boxers?” Adam whispers.

“Jeans.”

“Okay.”

Another kiss, something to distract Jamie from this next little cliff he’s set himself on. He tries to go slow, to relish this, to give Jamie this moment but he can’t, he can’t somehow. When he finally brushes his fingers against Jamie’s denim clad dick Adam can only moan, broken and desperate, swallowing whatever sound or reaction Jamie might be having. It’s just too much, his own dick throbbing in response, his throat closing up in the swell of sensation. The feel of Jamie’s cock, even behind two layers of repressed homosexuality, hell, maybe because of that, is enough to make Adam go crazy. He is, above all else, fucked in the head. So of course this is some weird fetish he has. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Jamie that’s got him this way. Whatever it is, Jamie seems to not notice. Or maybe he does, and likes how hot this is making Adam. All Adam knows is Jamie’s restraint has broken, his hips bucking, rubbing his cock against Adam’s hand, undone in a way Adam thought he’d never see him.

They’ve long since stopped kissing, Jamie’s head having fallen onto Adam’s shoulder, his mustache tickling his neck as Adam runs his palm along his trapped cock. A thumb rubbing at the head makes Jamie bite into the juncture of Adam’s neck and shoulder, so Adam does it again, and again, moaning loudly from the feel of Jamie’s teeth digging into the skin there. They shift, Jamie shifts, and there’s a solid thigh between his legs, pressing against Adam’s cock, and Adam’s other hand is at the back of Jamie’s neck. They’re grinding, moving rough and needy, and Adam can see them from outside of themselves, up high, watching as they rut in the middle of the shop. It’s heady and terrifying and he wants, needs, more, all of it. He’s crying out, squeezing Jamie’s cock through his jeans, straining to hear every single noise Jamie makes.

He wants nothing else but to do this until he can feel Jamie’s come soak his jeans, the wetness against his palm, Jamie moaning wet against his neck, there’s literally nothing he wants more. He doesn’t want to get off, or touch Jamie’s bare cock, he just wants to make him come like this, just like this. But he can tell Jamie’s not going to be able to come like this though, he needs something else. He has to ask.

“What do you need?”

Jamie practically sobs into his shoulder from the question, pressing hard into Adam’s palm, grinding like he’s trying to come from this, just so he doesn’t have to say it.

Fuck that shit.

“Tell me what you need,” Adam says. Demands. Bordering on petulant because he guesses Jamie might need that right now. He gets an answering bite in his shoulder, hard, close to breaking skin.

“Fuck you,” Jamie hisses.

“I’m going to make you come, want to make you come,” Adam says, not even sure what’s coming out of his mouth, just knows that Jamie’s breath is ragged, almost angry, his cock twitching against Adam’s palm, “Gonna make you come for me. Tell me how, tell me. Need it. Fuck, I need to make you come. I don’t care if you think saying --”

“Fuck you,” Jamie says again, voice rough, pushing Adam away so he can get a hold of the front of Adam’s shirt. They stare at each other for a moment, Jamie looking like he’s on the edge of insanity. “Can you just shut the fuck up for two goddamn minutes?”

“No,” Adam says, feeling himself smile. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

And it’s  _ such _ a line that he can’t imagine it won’t work, won’t get Adam bent over the table or pushed to his knees, but it doesn’t do any of that. Instead Jamie lets go of him and is going down. Down? Where? Adam can’t conceptualize where he might be going, what is happening, he only knows Jamie’s hands are back on Adam’s hips, are digging into his skin, anchoring him as he gets to his knees. What is he doing down there? Why? Adam is floating, breathing hard, face red. He must look ridiculous from that angle. Why is Jamie looking up at him from that angle, doesn’t he know it’s a bad angle? Nothing is going as planned. Nothing is making sense.

“What --?”

Jamie merely looks up at him, that smirk, that look, and his fingers are at his fly, brushing his cock through his jeans, shaking, but not clumsy. Never clumsy. Still precise for all his nerves and the newness of it all and Adam is biting down words, Jamie’s name, wanting so badly to ask why and tell him that he doesn’t have to, why does he want to? This isn’t what’s supposed to happen at all. Adam was supposed to do this. Not Jamie.

Jamie takes him out of his boxers, Jamie puts his hand around his cock, Jamie gets his mouth on his cock. Experimental brush of his lips. A shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut. A tongue. Lips. A moan.

“Jamie,” Adam breathes, his hand settles on Jamie’s head knocking his beret off. Jamie’s beret is on the ground now and shouldn’t someone pick that up, shouldn’t he be . . . Jamie takes him into his mouth, and moans softly. Like he’s been waiting for this. Planning for it. Dying for it.

He sucks at the head, and goes down, farther, not too far, this is his first time after all, his first time. His first time. Jamie is sucking his cock, a cock, his first dick, only dick if Adam can help it. He wants this for himself, only for him, desperately. A selfish thing. But Jamie’s eyes are shut, brow furrowed, mouth moving obscenely along his dick and Adam can’t think anything but these selfish, selfish thoughts. His nails dig into Jamie’s scalp, his breath hitching as his hips twitch, pushing his cock further into Jamie’s mouth and the responding moan has him so close so soon. No, no! Jamie’s the one who is supposed to come. Not Adam. Not -- Jamie stops there, far enough down Adam’s dick that he’s breathing hard through his nose and opens his eyes. Looks up. His eyes are wet, face covered in that splotchy ugly cute flush and Adam’s cock is laying against Jamie’s tongue like it belongs there and the way Jamie is making the smallest moaning noise around his cock makes Adam think maybe Jamie thinks it belongs there too.

“Jamie,” Adam says again, his name sliding into a strangled cry as Jamie pulls off just before he goes over the edge and he’s gasping for breath, watching uncomprehendingly as Jamie undoes his fly, takes his cock out from his boxers. Jamie’s cock. Adam’s watching Jamie on his knees, taking his cock in hand, precome at the tip, hard and leaking for Adam, from blowing Adam. It’s going so fast, so fast. He can’t think. Can’t think.

An experimental twist of his wrist and fluttering eyelashes and . . .

“Fuck, please,” Adam gasps.

Jamie simply looks up at him, looks embarrassed, a little scared, but oh so determined. Almost defiant. Like Jamie. Jamie. Jamie.

All Jamie wants is to make Adam come, fuck what Adam wants.

Fuck.

“Ask again,” Jamie says. Demands. His hand around his dick, stroking himself as Adam stares down at him, mouth open, dick bobbing in the air, looking the fool as always.

“Please, Jesus Christ, please suck me off Jamie, I’m dying here. Please,” Adam whimpers, and he knows this is just going to make Jamie insufferable next time. Next time. Next time Jamie will make him beg for real won’t he?

Jamie smiles like he knows what Adam is thinking. He feels safer here. In control, even on his knees. In control. In control. Adam is helpless to be anything but under Jamie’s control.

Jamie’s mouth is on him again, taking him deeper than before, almost all the way. Adam’s not hung and it’s truly a gift he realizes. Jamie is almost swallowing him down on his first try and dear god that’s better than anything.

Jamie’s moaning broken, pulling back, breath ragged, jerking himself off with one hand while the other is around the base of Adam’s dick, jerking him off as well as he mouths at the head of Adam’s cock. It’s enough, more than enough and he’s coming before he can say anything but Jamie’s name, come landing on Jamie’s tongue, down his throat, getting in his mustache, on his fingers. He feels bad about it before Jamie’s taking him back into his mouth, a keening, desperate sort of sound slipping out around his dick, sucking him through the aftershocks.

Insane. They’re both insane.

He holds onto the table, trying to breathe, get enough of himself together to focus. He manages to put his cock back into his jeans before he falls to his knees, kissing Jamie for dear life, tasting his come on his lips, his tongue, and he asks. Again. Pleading.

“Can I?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, voice wrecked. And Adam does.

Skin on skin, so fast, it goes so fast with Adam’s tongue down Jamie’s throat, his thumb spreading precome, laying on the dirty concrete, Jamie fucking into Adam’s fist. They’re in M5, and Adam is making Jamie come for him.

And he does. And it’s ugly. People don’t look good coming, Adam’s always thought. But it’s always hot, coming apart like this. Jamie coming apart for him. For a man. His first. And it’s Adam. It’s them. Here.

Adam kisses him though it, and then after, kisses him more than he thinks he should be, but he can’t stop. Never mind that they’re not even friends. That they’re not even close. They’re making out in the afterglow and Jamie is making hitched little sobs into the kisses and Adam just doesn’t give a fuck about it being clear cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to get another chapter done next week or so amid grad school woes, god willing


End file.
